


Apodyopsis

by Fireplum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireplum/pseuds/Fireplum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The heart is weak but the mind is fickle. Takes place during and after "His Last Vow", so major spoilers for Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> MorbidbyDefault asked for a fic based on the word "apodyopsis", the act of mentally undressing someone. I put a twist on it but I hope it answers the prompt nonetheless.

Lying has never been a problem for him – putting a mask on, handpicking the right words to elicit the right reaction, insinuating his way into someone’s mind undercover, like picking a lock in the dead of night. The thrill he gets out of it, he believes, must be quite similar to that of an actor when he feels the audience captivated by his every move and unaware for a moment that what they’re watching isn’t real.

 

There is one thing, however, that Sherlock can’t fake, and if he doesn’t quickly find a solution, he’s going to start raising suspicions.

 

The first time, she might have brushed it off as politeness, a gentlemanly refusal to impose on her despite his desire. The second time, he told her he was absolutely _beat_ from his workday and sent her off with a few kisses at the door. But now she’s manoeuvred her way not only into the flat but also onto the couch.

 

Well. He knew this was coming. He might get away with putting off sex, but he can’t very well expect to get engaged to a woman without any physical interaction or exterior signs of arousal. Which is precisely what is lacking at the moment, even as Janine runs her hands up and down his shirt.

 

“Well, Mister Detective, let’s see what you have under that coat,” she purrs into his ear, her fingers edging dangerously close to his belt.

 

Sherlock smiles at her and nips at her bottom lip, then drags his hand up her torso to squeeze her breast. She gives a little gasp and he continues his ministrations, trying to find that edge of pleasure that will finally rouse his blood, but his pulse remains despairingly placid.

 

It’s not that Janine isn’t beautiful. Dazzling smile, doe eyes with a naughty glint, lush curves… _Plastic. Porcelain. Boring._ Sherlock tries to shut down the voice in his head and just _feel_ – God knows the drugs still roiling in his veins should help – but there’s nothing else than lips mechanically moving together and saliva and tender flesh under his palm, like meat.

 

He closes his eyes and plunges down into his mind palace, down to _that room_. He’s used it before when his mind was going around in circles and his body demanding release. It’s easy, uncomplicated, efficient – and _clean_ , or at least as much as this sort of thing can be.

 

The room is dim, simple but luxurious, done in shades of red and grey. The Woman is sitting on a bed with her back towards the door, but when he enters, she turns around to face him and rises to her knees.

 

Sometimes she’s wearing a dressing gown of dark gossamer, sometimes nothing at all save her painted nails and her lipstick. But today she’s in black leather, and she’s got her riding crop. She whips it against the side of her leg. Her eyes are hard as ice.

 

 _You’ve been a wicked boy_ , she hisses. _Wicked, wicked boy. I’ll make you beg for mercy._

 

Sherlock shakes his head, takes a step back. It’s too raw, too blunt. Is it the drugs altering her, or something else? In any case, it won’t work. He retreats and closes the door.

 

Janine’s hand slips down to his crotch and slowly strokes him. Sherlock takes a sharp intake of breath.

 

“Something wrong?” she whispers.

 

“No. No. Keep going.”

 

He goes through his mental file of pornographic images but he doesn’t need common and crude now, he needs… _Delicate. Fresh. Forbidden_.

 

Suddenly, a flash of yellow tears into his mind, and an image, clear as day, of Molly Hooper in that ridiculous lemony dress of hers is cut out in front of his eyes. She looks at him with a sweet smile and turns her back to him.

 

 _Sherlock, the zipper is stuck._ Her voice is so soft it makes his stomach quiver. _Will you help me? Please, Sherlock, I need you.  
_

He doesn’t have time to ask himself why Molly Hooper and why that dress, but as he reaches out to slide the zipper down her spine, his heartbeats increase and his erection finally stirs. Janine grins against his mouth.

 

“Oh, what’s this then?” she teases.

 

Sherlock kisses her again, hoping that’ll shut her up, and continues to pull the zipper down in his mind. The yellow cloth parts, revealing Molly’s bare back. He slips his hand under her dress to push it down her shoulder and his fingers catch in the elastic band of her simple white bra.

 

 _What are you doing?_ Molly says with a little gasp. _You know I can’t. I’ve moved on._

 

He tugs at the strap impatiently, then the other, and fiddles with the clasp. _Have you really?_

 

Suddenly he wants to tear the damn thing off her, and her dress as well, rip it to shreds until she’s naked, writhing underneath him, pinned down with no means of escape. He plunges towards the nape of her neck and bites her silky skin, making her cry out just a little bit.

 

 _Have you really?_ he repeats. _What will you do if I take this off? Will you try and stop me? Or will you ask for more?_

 

 _Sherlock_ , she moans. _Sherlock_ …

 

“Sherlock,” Janine pants. “Come on, let’s take this to your bedroom.”

 

“What?” he replies, startled. “Oh, I – I don’t know if...”

 

She raises an eyebrow. “Looks to me as if you’re ready. _More_ than ready.”

 

“It’s just that – I’ve got a early day tomorrow,” he fumbles. “I need to get some rest.”

 

Janine sits back with a pout. “You’re _always_ trying to find an excuse so I don’t stay over.”

 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he says, gently touching her cheek. “That has nothing to do with it.”

 

“All right, just let me sleep here then. I promise I won’t pounce on you during the night.”

 

She winks at him and before he can say anything, she rises from the sofa and heads towards the bathroom. He falls back against the armrest with a groan, trying to rid his mind and body of what was swelling within it just moments earlier. Regardless of Janine’s presence, he’s unsure whether to feel relieved that he won’t have to pursue this particular fantasy to its completion, or terrified that it might come back as soon as the lights are out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone's wondering about "Tinsel Burial" or my Hobbit fic, I'm currently finishing an original novel and my fanfiction is taking a bit of a backseat until I'm done, but fear not, updates should resume in March :) Thanks for being patient readers.

Molly decides she'll stop taking John Watson' phone calls the day he tells her, "Sherlock's making a good recovery. The doctor says he's ready for visits now. You should come see him."

 

It's nothing compared to _I think Sherlock needs a drug test_ or _Sherlock's been shot_ , but she is so wracked with emotions nonetheless that her hands are trembling when she hangs up. She can't even remember what she told John - blubbered something about work and trying her best - but once again the anger and guilt swell painfully inside of her and push against her chest.

 

_Sherlock’s been shot? But he’s all right, yeah? He isn’t… I mean, he can’t be…_

_We’re not sure yet. We’re just not sure._

 

For hours on end, until John called again and told her Sherlock had pulled through, all she could think of were his bloodshot eyes, glaring at her after she had slapped him. That morning, he was alive, blessedly alive, and _she had slapped him_. But the need to hurt him was overwhelming - _is_ overwhelming still. He plays with death so carelessly that sometimes she thinks she'd like to finish the job for him, smash her heart in one stroke instead of having it crack and splinter in so many places over time.

 

And yet in spite of her pain, in spite of her disgust, as soon as she’s on her lunch break, Molly grabs her coat, hurries downstairs and heads to Saint Thomas’s in a cab. The traffic shouldn’t be too bad at this time of day.

 

When she arrives in Sherlock's room, he's sleeping soundly. His skin is impossibly pale, translucent almost, and it takes her a moment to find the bandage marking where the bullet hit. She stands at the foot of the bed and wipes the tears away from her cheeks.

 

After awhile she starts arranging the cards and bouquets on the nightstand, just for something to do. She pulls the dead flowers out to leave more room for the fresh ones that are sure to come, and as she upturns them in the bin, a bold white lettering catches her eye.

 

_Seven times a night in Baker Street_

 

It takes her a moment to realise that there's a picture of Sherlock right underneath the headline, another moment to understand what it implies. Seven times what? Why at night? Her brain stumbles stubbornly until it latches on to the rest of the text.

 

_Exclusive – Sherlock Holmes kiss and tell_

 

Molly grabs the paper and it rustles in her grip. This must be some insane tabloid rumour, it must. But beneath the first paper is a second one, and this time she comes face to face with a gorgeous smile and dark wavy hair under a deerstalker.

 

It's Mary's maid of honour. Janine. They danced together and her lavender dressed swished around elegantly as they waltzed. Janine. Sherlock's fiancée, according to the caption. _He made me wear the hat._

 

She makes for the door in a daze, paper still in hand. Once she's out in the corridor, she finds she has to sit down, then stares at the newspaper on her lap and wonders what to do with it.

 

 _Don't_ , a small voice in her head pleads. _Don't do it. Throw it away, go home, turn on the TV, think of something else..._

 

But at home, there is nothing else, not anymore. There aren't any arms to hold her, any hands to stroke her hair, no silly laughs and pet names to make her forget the hollow feeling inside.

 

 _You just haven't been the same lately, Molly_ , he told her. (He only called her Molly and not Mols when he was very upset). _You're cross all the time, you're distracted... you hardly make any time for me, for us._

_That's not true,_ she replied _. We're together now, aren't we?_

_Yes, and about to sleep on the couch because His Majesty pranced in and demanded your bed!_

 

Molly closes her eyes, shuts the memory away. _Don't_ , the voice begs. But she can't hold everything back. She thinks of the wedding. Janine in her beautiful dress, picture-perfect at Sherlock's arm. Did it start that night? No, it couldn't have. He left early, and she left with another man. Afterwards, then? Did he call her, ask her out? It doesn't make any sense, not for Sherlock, but with John gone, and the drugs...

 

Maybe it was revenge, something to slap on hastily on the open wound. He must have gone to her place, dissected it in a second, prodded her to test what worked best, found some measure of amusement and distraction in the whole thing...

 

 _Don't_.

 

So often has she imagined Sherlock kissing her, enveloping her, making love to her with brute, unbridled lust – vivid images that would keep her awake in the dark - that the scenario slips uninvited into her mind in agonising detail. Sherlock undressing Janine with a haste bordering on voracity, gripping her plump curves and making her giggle and sigh, the two of them falling back on a bed with expensive, immaculate sheets  - _don’t, stop, it’s not too late_ – Sherlock ravaging her mouth and nipping at her neck, pining her wrists above her head…

 

“Molly, you made it!”

 

She startles. John is standing next to her with a tired smile. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

 

“Yes, yes, thanks for calling me… I went to see Sherlock but he was sleeping, so… How are you? And Mary?”

 

“It’s been a rough couple of days, but we’re holding out.” He sits next to her and clears his throat. “You know all that’s garbage, don’t you?”

 

She blinks, then realises he’s talking about the newspaper. Her fingers have clenched around the wrinkly cover.

 

“He was faking it for a case,” John continues, strangely insistent. “There wasn’t anything between them, not really.”

 

“Right,” she replies in an overly cheery voice. “I figured there must’ve been a reason.”

 

“I think Mary’s seen the headlines, but she’ll go mental when she finds out the whole story. Better keep it under wraps for now.”

 

“Sure, no problem. But in return… don’t tell Sherlock I came, all right?”

 

He frowns. “Why not?”

 

“I’d just rather not. Please.”

 

“Okay,” he says, nodding, and there’s something in his eyes that Molly can’t quite define. Is it pity, or regret? Probably pity.

 

She stands up and discards the paper on the empty seat to her left. “I have to go. Give my love to Mary and Mrs Hudson and… Greg, if you see him.”

 

“I will. But Molly, you should -”

 

She hurries away before she can hear the rest.

 

On the way back to Bart’s, she tries to avoid looking at newsstands and the garish proclamations of Janine and Sherlock’s frenzied sex life, but it’s all she can see now. _He was faking it_ , she tells herself over and over again. But then she remembers his empty pupils and the test results that made her stomach lurch, and she knows that when Sherlock plays a part, he doesn’t back down in front of anything. In fact, he relishes in it, and all the rest of them can do is scramble to save a piece of themselves.

 

A story sold to a tabloid. A slap. An exhausted hope that everything will be all right.

 

 

#

 

That evening, she’s just about done with her shift when Mary comes to see her. Sherlock has disappeared from his hospital bed and they’re looking for him. She presses Molly for information with remarkable calm and perceptiveness –  _He’s already hidden out at your flat, hasn’t he? When he needs a safe place to rest?_ – and Molly answers as vaguely as she can. Mary doesn’t insist. A few hours later, Greg sends her a text informing her that Sherlock’s back in the hospital.  Molly doesn’t reply.

 

Autumn turns into winter and Molly stops answering her phone. John calls but doesn’t leave a message. She buries herself in her work, taking on as many shifts as she can, returning to her flat only to crash down on her bed and sleep. Greg’s visits at the morgue become fewer and far between, and she barely reacts when he tells her Sherlock has finally been released from care.

 

Christmas comes and goes. Molly treats herself to some new sheets and buys a nice bottle of wine for New Year’s Eve. She falls asleep with the telly on and Toby purring at her side while London celebrates outside.

 

A few days into January and John calls again. This time he leaves a message, but Molly deletes it without listening. Then, more alarmingly, she receives a phone call from Sherlock. He’s never called before, communicating only through short, concise text messages. She wonders if something’s wrong with Mary or the baby, but figures that Mrs Hudson or Greg would contact her if anything really serious happened.

 

He calls again. It takes all of Molly’s strength not to answer. Whatever it is he has to say, it would destroy the rigid casing of routine and boredom and exhaustion she has painstakingly built around herself.

 

He calls again, at two in the morning. He’s hoping to catch her off guard by waking her in the middle of the night. Molly switches off her mobile and tosses it in the drawer of her nightstand.

 

The next day, she’s feeling a little better. The sun is almost shining and even though it’s still cold, there’s a hint of spring in the air. Somehow it makes her feel like she’s going to make it this time.

 

She’s entering the staff room for a coffee break when everything comes shattering down. Someone has turned on the TV and a dead man’s mouth is repeating the same three words in a loop.

 

_Did you miss me?_

 


	3. Chapter 3

When Sherlock enters the elevator that will lead him to Molly's flat, it's with a sense of urgency he never felt before, or at least not when he came here. Whenever he hid out at Molly's, it was out of a petulant unwillingness to subject himself to the stress and noise of the outside world any longer, and he would nestle there for a few days, sleeping on her bed and resting on her couch and eating her food. He always came unannounced and Molly would sometimes complain, but she never had the heart to kick him out.

 

Although it came quite close last time. She kept him in the corridor, shooting nervous little glances over her shoulder, unwilling to let him go any further. 

 

"You can't stay," she hissed (so far as Molly could really hiss, in fact it was more a panicked whisper). "I'm sorry, but Tom's here and -"

 

It was during the first days of his "relationship" with Janine and he was desperate for a place to hide out for twenty-four hours. His patience wearing thin from the inane dates he had to subject himself to, he told Janine he was visiting his parents in the country and couldn't very well be caught traipsing around London.

 

"Molly, please," he insisted, lowering his voice and locking his eyes with hers. "Just this once."

 

"Well..."

 

"I won't be a bother. I'll stay in your room and you can have the rest of the flat to yourselves."

 

"My room? No, I told you, Tom's here..."

 

In the end, she gave in, of course. Sherlock remembers how he lay on her bed that evening, staring up at the ceiling and listening to Molly and Tom argue in the living room, a savage satisfaction swelling inside of him.

 

"Why don't you just tell him no? It's not that difficult, you say no to me all the time!"

 

"I'm just helping out a friend. Is that so terrible?"

 

"A friend? He's not your friend, Molly. He's not anyone's friend except John Watson's. Why don't you open your eyes? He's using you!"

 

Sherlock always knew the man was an idiot, but his claims at understanding the bond he and Molly shared were even more preposterous than his attempts at crime solving. Of course Sherlock wasn't just using her. Of course he was Molly's friend. The gleeful triumph he experienced when he realised their engagement was over was nothing more than the thrill of validation.

 

As the elevator slogs up to fourth floor, Mycroft's voice slithers through his mind. _Friends aren't glad when engagements fall apart, little brother. Friends don't delight in domestic arguments._

 

 _Friends look out for each other_ , Sherlock counters. _He wasn't right for her and she's better off without him._

 

 _Alone and once again available to your_ _…_ whims _. How very convenient._

 

_This isn't a question of convenience._

 

And it's not. It's a question of making sure Molly is safe, because if Moriarty is well and truly alive, she'll be high on his list of targets. Not that Sherlock really believes Moriarty will strike tonight - no, he'll let everyone scratch their heads and simmer for a while before starting the fire - but just like it appeases him to know John and Mary are safe in their lovely home and armed to the teeth, he needs to see Molly alive and well in her little flat so he can pretend for one moment that the situation is back to normal.

 

When he arrives and knocks on the door, Molly doesn’t answer right away. He can hear her, right on the other side, breathing quietly. She’s already looked through the peephole, so she knows it’s him. She’s just not sure she wants to open.

 

It stings, but it was predictable, given how she ignored his phone calls. (In a way, he’s relieved she did. He wanted to say goodbye to her, give her a proper farewell, just like he did Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, but when you ring someone up at two in the morning without any hope of seeing them again, the standard parting words fall a bit short.) That doesn’t mean he’s going to turn away, though.

 

“I’ll stay all evening in your corridor if I have to,” he says. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

 

The door opens and Molly stands before him, her eyes two dark pools of apprehension. Sherlock suddenly realises that he hasn’t seen her since that morning at Barts, and he has no idea what she knows about Magnussen, Janine, the whole affair. Has John told her, or Mary? She’s lost weight, her cheeks are slightly sunken in – not boyfriend troubles this time, but a different sort of distress.

 

“What are you doing here?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

“Hiding from the MI6,” he answers casually. “Mycroft has three henchmen and an undercover squadron watching my flat, but I happen to like my privacy.”

 

She nods wearily. “So you need a place to stay for the night. Don’t John and Mary have a spare bedroom?”

 

“They’re refurbishing for the baby. Wallpaper with ducklings – not really my taste.”

 

He’s trying to lighten the mood but Molly won’t have it. She steps away to let him in and goes to sit on the sofa while Sherlock takes off his coat.

 

“You can have my room,” she says. “Sheets are clean, I changed them yesterday.”

 

“That’s very generous of you,” he replies, taking place in the armchair. “But I’m fine with the sofa if you - ”

 

“Sherlock, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?”

 

Straight to the point, then. All right. No use playing the game of small talk in this situation. “You know why.”

 

She nods slowly. “So he’s back, then.”

 

“We aren’t sure of anything yet. The videos and their source are being analysed, but no luck so far. I… I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

 

“I am. It’s nice of you to worry, but I’m fine. Take care of the case, that’s what you do best.”

 

She’s staring down at her slippers, refusing to meet his eye, and Sherlock thinks he’d rather have her slap him again. He never fully appreciated how much he relied on her faith, her inexplicable belief in him; now that he understands that it may have disappeared at last, there’s a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Have you talked to John and Mary?” he ventures.

 

“John told me about Janine, if that’s what you’re wondering. You must have been very convincing to pull it off, but then I should know how easy it is to be tricked that way. I guess I should be thankful it only lasted three dates.”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. Of course. How could he have not made the connection? She’s accusing him of using Janine just like Moriarty used her. She’s right. He must disgust her. He’s overwhelmed by the desire to take her hand, ask for her forgiveness, to find some way to repair the trust he’s broken. But just as he’s about to rise to go sit next to her, Molly stands up.

 

“Let’s just forget about this,” she mumbles. “You had your reasons, no doubt. You did your duty and that’s that.”

 

“Right,” he croaks, and an image of Magnussen’s smooth forehead pierced by a bullet hole flashes through his mind.

 

“I’d like to get some rest, if you don’t mind, so if you could..."

 

He nods and gets up, retreating to her room. “Molly, if you need anything -”

 

“What could I need from you in the middle of the night?” she says with a wry smile. “Go to bed. I’ll wake you up when I leave for work.”

 

 

#

 

 

It’s been two hours and thirty-four minutes since Sherlock lied down to sleep, but his brain refuses to let him sink into oblivion. It's not even being productive, making helpful deductions or hypothesis, just milling out a jumble of useless thoughts spinning in the void, taunting him into restlessness and frustration.

 

This has happened before, of course, but Sherlock refuses to even contemplate the solution he’s relied on in similar cases. Not when he’s in Molly’s bed, stripped down to his boxer shorts and draped in sheets that smell like fresh soap and another subdued scent he’d rather not dwell upon. Not when she’s in the next room.

 

He squeezes his eyes shut and his mind, his treacherous mind trained to reproduce methods based on their previous effectiveness, provides him with a vision of Molly in that damned yellow dress, looking at him over her shoulder with soft, pleading eyes.

 

_Sherlock, the zipper is stuck_ _…_

 

He shakes it away, but it’s already caused a stir in his veins that he can’t push down. He needs something tangible to keep it at bay – a glass of water, a breath of cold air. He untangles himself from the sheets and stands from the bed, then slips silently into the living room.

 

In the murky dimness, he can make out Molly’s form on the sofa, and he creeps closer in spite of himself. She’s wearing a ragged t-shirt with a kitten on it and mismatched shorts, and he’s momentarily reassured by this harmless, commonplace sight. Then it dawns on him that getting up in the middle of night and watching Molly sleep whilst trying to contain an erection is hardly harmless. In fact, it makes things even worse, because now the dark part of his mind is taking him to a place where he would kneel down, slip his hand on her shoulder to wake her, bury his face in the crook of her warm neck, trace her beating pulse with his lips, his tongue, slide his fingers under her t-shirt and let them glide over her bare body. There would be no need for words then, she would pull him closer and open for him like a silk bow coming lose at the slightest tug, because she’s wanted this for so long, and he wants it too, he wants it so fiercely that he almost reaches out and…

 

Molly turns in her sleep and Sherlock draws back. He can’t do this. There’s too much of a risk that she hasn’t completely rid herself of her feelings for him yet, and that she would let him. But she’d regret it so bitterly the next morning that it would burn the last remaining bridge.

 

 _Junkie. Liar. Cheat._ This is what she sees now when she looks at him. _Murderer._ If she ever found out about Magnussen…

 

Sherlock clenches his fists and returns to the bedroom. He must accept the fact that if he wants to protect Molly, he has to keep his distance. There is some comfort in this blunt logic, and for a moment he almost wants to thank Moriarty for forcing some pragmatism into him.

 

Yet as he lies back down, he is filled with the chilling certitude that whatever it is that roused inside of him, it is bound to come back and there’s no way to prevent it. The heart is weak, but the mind is fickle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should apologise for this because it's not often the UST tag lives up to its promises, but before you go after me with pitchforks and torches, let me assure you there will be a sequel. I just need to take a little break from fanfic until the end of the school year. In any case, thanks for reading :)


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